Almost Violent
by N2
Summary: Post X3. Grocery shopping leads to nudity. Who knew? ColossusPyro


**your beauty strikes like a punch out of nowhere  
your passion bites and I'm willing to get there**

These sorts of things aren't supposed to happen.

Not to _him_, anyway - his life at Xavier's was not marked by dramas seemingly stolen from the scripts of bad soap operas, but was an example of perfect social harmony. He left people alone to do what they liked, and they in turn left him alone as well. In a place where so many of the student body had unpleasant pasts, nobody thought to question where he had come from or why, and that pleased him. Nobody thought to question his hobbies, his interests. "The big guy? Oh, yeah. Draws a little. Quiet. Looks after the younger kids a lot."

And dating? Forget it. He was older than most of the others, for one. And as for the other factor, well… nobody asked about that, either.

No drama. No scenes. Just quiet, sane, routine.

Thusly: these sorts of things aren't supposed to happen to him. He feels this so strongly, in fact, that when his eyes meet Pyro's over the pile of Red Delicious he almost says out loud, "_Uh, God? Think you got me mixed up with Bobby. Or maybe Rogue_."

Peter has one hand on an apple. Directly opposite and likewise frozen, St. John holds open a plastic bag.

It's the other boy - always more talkative - who breaks the silence. "Shit."

Fight-or-flight instinct gleams in John's eyes and Peter's mouth opens before a decision can be reached. "Shopping," is the word that falls out. Peter holds up the apple he's holding, as though proof were needed.

John relaxes the slightest iota. "Same," he replies.

They stare at each other for a heartbeat, and then John's face breaks into the twisted smirk that is his version of a smile as he snorts laughter. "Jesus, this is stupid," he mutters. His eyes, however, stay glued to Peter's every movement. "You're not gonna give me trouble are you, big man?" he asks.

Peter drops the apple into his own plastic bag. "No," he replies. "Not unless you start something." He keeps his tone deliberately conversational. "It's good to see you, John."

John snorts at that. "Pyro," he replies, and Peter supposes it's supposed to sound aggressive but it comes out sounding relieved.

"Sorry."

"You here alone?" John asks, and Peter knows it would be smarter to lie, but instead he nods and is surprised when John sighs and says, "Yeah, me too."

They stare at each other silent for a moment, and it occurs to Peter that he has absolutely nothing to say.

_This should be happening to Bobby or Rogue_, he thinks again. Bobby and John had been best friends since John had first shown up at the Institute, spending so much time together that Peter had begun to think of them as brothers. Or lovers. Although Peter supposes that was just his imagination run riot.

Then Rogue came, and Peter knew that the three of them – John, Bobby and the girl – made some sort of weird triangle all composed of lust and friendship and strain. He was glad not to be a part of it. He considered himself friends with all of them, but not close.

Never close.

"Aren't you going to ask me where I've been?" John asks suddenly. His tone is an uneasy mix of amusement and annoyance. "How I got away from Alcatraz? Evaded the authorities? Hell, where Magneto is? I mean, you are an _X-Man _now, aren't you, Pete?" Peter doesn't think he's ever heard such sarcasm; it drips from the words like poison.

He picks up another apple, examines it for bruises, and drops it into the bag. Only then does he reply, "No."

"So, what do we do now?" John asks, his mouth twisting into another smirk. Only John, Peter realizes, can make a smile look like something painful. "You are one strange guy," he continues. "If you were Bobby or Rogue, I don't know _what_ would be happening right now. Fight with Bobby, I guess. Rogue… I don't know. She took the cure, didn't she?"

Peter nods.

"Yeah. Hell, little Kitty Pryde probably would have run screaming for the nearest cop." John looks away, still smirking.

"You underestimate her," Peter says. John turns to look at him again.

"Sweet on her, Peter?" John asks, laughing. "Perv. She's like, fifteen. Anyway, I figure you're trying to get my guard down so you can club me upside the head before calling Storm." He is watching Peter very carefully. "I mean, let's not kid ourselves here, Peter. You're like Dudley-fuckin-Do-Right. You were practically made for this hero bullshit."

Peter isn't sure what reaction John was expecting, but he knows it isn't the one he gets: Peter starts laughing.

He tries not to, but all things considered it's really just too much.

"What's so funny?" John asks, and Peter knows he's very close to getting a fireball in the face and the guy putting out broccoli is looking at them funny but still—

He gets himself under control with some effort and leans forward so he can speak quietly. He is smiling. "We really don't know each other very well at all, do we John?" Rhetorical question; he doesn't wait for a reply. ""I have no intentions of turning you over to the authorities. I have no intentions of dragging you, kicking and screaming or dead unconscious, back to the Institute. I considered you a friend once and so am glad to see you are not dead. That is all." He shakes his head. "As for me being 'made for this hero bullshit', you may be right. Considering what heroes do, though, I'm surprised you haven't considered what sort of training prepares you for the job."

Peter pulls back and twists the bag of apples he is still holding shut. John stands, silent and watchful. Peter places his apples in the basket over his arm regards John fully once more.

"Bobby is fine. He says he hates you. Rogue is still at the Institute, although perhaps not for much longer since she is of course no longer a mutant. Kitty is growing up, and appears to have taken your place in that weird little love triangle you guys had going on." He sighs. "I miss Cyclops. He was the only sane one there, you know."

"Why are you telling me this shit?" John asks amiably, and walks around the produce display so they are standing next to each other. Peter hopes this is a sign that the other boy isn't planning on doing something stupid.

Peter shrugs. "I thought you might want to know."

"And what do you mean 'weird love triangle'?" Now those dark eyes are sparkling.

"Oh, give me a break, John. There was something going on there. I just can't figure out if it was Rogue you were after or Bobby."

John laughs at that and Peter smiles. It's a good sound. "Both!" John exclaims and starts laughing even harder.

"Really?"

Still hiccupping laughter, John nods. "What, have a problem with a guy swinging both ways, Peter?" he asks, and there is real defensiveness in his voice, and that sets Peter off too. It's even funnier than the Dudley-Do-Right comment.

"Hardly," he manages finally, chuckling.

"You too, huh?" John asks.

Peter shakes his head. He doesn't lie – he just never volunteers the truth.

John's eyes widen momentarily in understanding, and then he is smirking again. "I never noticed you looking at my ass, I guess," he says.

"You're not my type," Peter snorts quickly, and is disturbed when the younger boy leans closer.

"Yeah?" John's smirk is infuriating – cocky and daring and just begging to be wiped off by a swift hit to the face or—

Peter leans forward and kisses it.

John tastes like cinnamon and his lips are chapped, but he kisses back with such ferocity that Peter wonders momentarily if he's maybe gotten into something he can't handle here. He put his hands on the other boy's shoulders and pushes gently so John can't suck his face off, letting his tongue trace the contours of the other boy's mouth very slowly. Then he pulls back, smiles, and says, "Yeah. Not my type at all."

Peter stands. John actually looks surprised, and Peter thinks this must be the first time anyone has ever walked away from those hungry kisses. "I'm glad you're okay, John. Take care of yourself, yeah?" he realizes that he hasn't called the other boy 'Pyro' since the start of their conversation and has not been chastised for it once.

The smirk is back. "You gonna tell anyone you saw me?"

"No. I see no reason to." He shrugs. "And I won't ask where you're going." He smiles, wide and genuine. "'Bye."

"'Bye," John replies, and gives a little wave Peter thinks is supposed to be sarcastic. Peter turns his back on him and walks towards the checkout, resolutely not thinking about the taste of cinnamon.

**I heed your eyes, your words leave me silent  
I'm paralyzed; your look's almost violent**

He finds it remarkable that in all this time Peter has not changed his cell number.

"Hello?" More remarkable still – he answers with no hint of suspicion, although John is calling from a payphone and so the number must not be recognisable.

"Hey," John replies with practiced nonchalance. His throat clicks dryly when he swallows. "It's John."

"Oh, hi!" Peter sounds genuinely glad to hear from him. "Can you hold on a second?" There is a sound that can only be Peter covering up the mouthpiece on his cell, and some muffled voices. A moment later and he is back, apologising. "Sorry. I didn't want people overhearing. Is everything okay?"

John grins bitterly. 'People' probably means 'Bobby and Rogue'.

"No, everything's fine," John assures the other boy. "I just… heh. You realise I still remember your cell number?"

"I'm sort of curious as to WHY that is," Peter replies, but again his voice is utterly devoid of suspicion. If anything, he sounds amused. John isn't sure if he should be pissed about that.

_Jackass,_ he chides himself. _YOU called HIM._

"You got any money, Pete?" he asks. Inside the phone booth he shifts so he can pull his lighter from his pocket and flick it open. It steadies his nerves.

Not that he's nervous.

"I thought you said you weren't in trouble--?"

"I'm not. Just starving. I was thinking of pulling a dine-n-dash, but I wouldn't want to attract the attention of a bunch of superdorks who live in the area or anything like that."

A pause. Waiting. John flicks his lighter open. Closed. Open.

"Tell me where to meet you."

John grins.

They eat in a small restaurant with red vinyl booths and bottomless sodas. They barely speak to each other; John is too busy stuffing himself to talk, and Peter prefers to savour his food silently.

The waitress who has been ogling Peter's biceps every time she refills their pop brings the bill. John stretches contentedly and belches. "Thanks," he says.

"Don't mention it," Peter replies, taking the bill and frowning at it. "It's not like you're going to make a habit of it."

John smirks lazily as Peter pulls some twenties from his wallet. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe I'll skulk around the area for a while. Have you pay for my meals. Get fat."

Peter snorts. "You obviously have mistaken me for someone who tolerates freeloaders."

John gets to his feet and follows Peter out of the restaurant. He grins when a group of frat boys part before him like the Red Sea. Peter, John muses, is so big he probably doesn't even notice the insects scurrying out of his way anymore.

"Well," Peter says, standing at the edge of the parking lot. "I guess this is goodbye once more."

John shrugs slowly. "You have important plans or something?"

"No…"

"So drive me to my hotel."

Peter looks at him evenly and John makes sure to stand casually, smirking, deliberately throwing off an indifferent attitude. He has spent most of his life learning to read people and finds the majority of them to be as transparent as window glass.

Peter's in the minority, though. He is – like John himself – inscrutable.

"Okay," Peter says, and John realizes only after the other boy speaks that he was holding his breath.

Peter leads him to the car he has borrowed from the Institute and John tosses himself into the passenger seat easily. He doesn't bother with the seatbelt. Peter does, and also checks his blind spots before pulling out of the lot and onto the road.

"Where's your hotel?" Peter asks and John gives him directions. The odometer never rises above the posted limit, he notes with some amusement. Is Peter capable of being anything other than slow and deliberate?

The hotel would never be described as five-star. In fact, it might not even be described as ONE. Peter frowns at it as they pull into the parking lot and John grins at the reaction. "Hey," he says, opening the car door, "I've stayed in worse places."

"I shudder to think," Peter replies, also getting out.

John folds his arms on the roof of the car and leans, smirking widely. "Gosh, thanks for a swell time," he says sarcastically, pleased when Peter just snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Hey you wanna come up for a bit?" John asks, as though the idea had just occurred to him. It hasn't of course, although he's still uncertain as to what he's planning to do if the big dumb Russian says yes. There's a trickle of sweat working its way down his back and it tickles like hell, but he remains locked in his casual pose while Peter looks at him, then at the hotel, then back at him again.

"I'm not going to catch any fatal diseases by sitting down on a chair in there, am I?" he asks.

John laughs and starts walking towards the stairway leading up to the second floor. "I make no promises," he calls back over his shoulder. Peter follows after locking the car, catching up easily due to the length of his stride. John leads him to the second-to-last room on the second floor, unlocks the door and steps in.

"Home sweet home," John says, moving out of the way so Peter can enter. He shuts and locks the door after him. "Well, at least for now."

There are water-stains on the ceiling and the lamp is wrapped in plastic. The paintings on the wall look like they were bought at a flea market but are nonetheless nailed in place. The curtains are drawn, but they are flimsy things and so the afternoon sunshine filters through and coats the room with a tired yellow glow and turns the air to honey.

Peter surveys the room slowly. "You're staying by yourself?" he asks.

John raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. What, you think I have an entourage hiding in the closet?" He crosses the room and flops across the bed, suddenly uneasy. He's not sure where he's going with any of this and he thinks that if it were Bobby or Rogue standing in the middle of his cheap ugly hotel room he'd know exactly what to do.

But it's not and he doesn't.

He stares up at a water stain that looks quite a bit like Abe Lincoln and with one hand digs into his pocket to bring out his lighter. The sound it makes as he flicks it open and closed calms him.

"You're going to set the bed on fire if you're not careful," Peter says. John looks to see if the room's only chair is actually capable of supporting Peter's bulk and is a little surprised to see the other boy standing exactly where he had been a minute ago, just watching him with one eyebrow raised and a slight smile.

"That a come-on?" John asks jokingly, refocusing on Honest Abe. God, what a stupid hat that guy had.

Pause. Too long a pause. John risks another look and sees Peter is just staring at him now, his face completely unreadable. John sits up abruptly, flicking his lighter closed at the same time. "Hey—" he starts, and Peter moves, closing the distance between them with barely more than a step and dropping to one knee so he can press his mouth against John's.

There's no time for uncertainty now; John kisses back hungrily, opening his mouth and grabbing the other boy's head with his hands. His fingers pull at closely cropped hair and he wraps his legs around Peter's waist, pulling him even closer with an impatient grunt.

Peter's mouth slips from his own and moves instead to John's neck, sucking and nipping at flesh with an infuriating slowness. John hisses breath in over his lower lip and thrusts his hips, grinding his suddenly very noticeable erection against Peter's midriff. Peter laughs softly against his neck and John has to resist the urge to clock him upside the head for it.

He settles instead on forcing a smirk and saying in as casual a tone as he can muster, "Oh, shut up, Peter."

Peter withdraws a bit and John is shocked by the intensity of the other boy's gaze.

Intensity. It's part of the reason he left Xavier's – everyone there had seemed too docile. Politics aside, he'd been drawn to Magneto and Mystique from the start because in their eyes he saw passion. Heat.

"Shit," John breathes softly, and grabs Peter's head again, pulling it forward to ram their mouths together once more. Peter tries to pull away again and John bites his lower lip sharply before running his tongue over it. Peter moans and John smirks.

"Wait, wait," Peter is muttering, disentangling their bodies. "I'm going to fall on top of you, here…" John is about to tell Peter to shut up again, but considering how much Peter weighs he realises that this is a good point and so he drops his legs and lets Peter stand.

Maybe it's the angle, but John can't help but marvel at how fucking BIG Peter is. "Christ, how tall ARE you?" he asks, laughing a little. Peter strips off his t-shirt unceremoniously and shrugs.

"Six-six, I think." Peter sits down on the bed and it creaks in protest. His gaze is roaming over John's body in a way that restores some of John's cockiness. He might be huge, and he might generally be as impassive as a piece of Greek statuary, but right now he belongs to John.

"Bitchin'," John mutters, and leans forward for another devouring kiss.

The yellow air is warm and stale and seems to lie heavily in his lungs when he breathes. Peter's huge hands are surprisingly dexterous, divesting John of his shirt and undoing his fly quickly and easily. John groans when Peter's hand brushes his cock while unzipping his pants, pulling back enough to help shove both pants and underwear down and off of his body. There is an annoying moment when his pants leg gets stuck on his left foot, but since there are two of them working at it the problem is quickly resolved and John finds himself sitting on Peter's lap, his mouth working at one rock-hard nipple while Peter's hands slide up his thighs. When one of those hands wraps itself loosely around his cock John closes his teeth gently on Peter's nipple and tugs.

"You're a biter?" Peter mutters hoarsely and John notes with glee that the perfect Midwestern accent the other boy has always taken pains to maintain has slipped. Quite a bit, actually. He raises his head, smirking, and catches Peter's eyes with his own.

"Sometimes," he says. "I just like getting a reaction."

"Mm." Not one for conversation, Peter starts stroking John's cock slowly, running his thumb over the head in a manner that would best be described as leisurely. John closes his eyes and rocks his hips; mouth still curved in a half-smirk. Peter's mouth moves as slowly as his hand, working up from John's collarbone to his jawline before laying a gentle kiss on John's forehead.

"Up," Peter instructs, and John opens his eyes.

"Nah," he replies. Peter raises an eyebrow and then merely wraps an arm around John, pulling him close, and rises to his knees so John is left clinging to him, ass a good foot off the bed and legs wrapped around Peter's waist again.

"Shit," John says, and Peter drops him, laughing, onto the bed. He turns, and John moves so he's actually lying lengthwise on the bed instead of across it, one hand going to his dick and pumping it as he watches Peter strip.

Peter undresses with no apparent hurry, and when he lies down on the bed next to John he doesn't appear self-conscious in the slightest so John lets his eyes slide over the other boy's body with relish. "How did you get so fucking big anyway?' he asks, and grins at the unintentional double-entendre.

Peter smiles. "I eat my Wheaties," he replies softly, and John is delighted to hear that his accent has not departed. "Come here."

John's tempted to say, 'hell no, YOU come HERE,' but Peter's eyes are startlingly fierce and so he just scoots over and into the other boy's arms. One of Peter's hands goes behind John's head, the strong fingers working gently at the nape of his neck, while the other drifts with torturous slowness to John's cock. John thrusts his hips quickly, trying to get Peter to hurry the fuck up already because this is killing him, and runs his hands over as much bare skin as he can touch.

Peter moves, drawing closer still even as he shifts so that John is lower – his face is pressed against Peter's chest. John shudders as Peter's cock slides against his own, and then Peter's huge hand envelops both of them and starts rubbing slowly.

"Oh, _shit_," John says, and wraps his arms around Peter's torso. Although his movements are slow and deliberate, John can feel the other boy's heart and it is hammering wildly. John jerks his hips a little faster to counterpoint Peter's pace and digs his fingers into Peter's well muscled back. Peter says something in Russian, very quickly and very quietly, and John grins widely.

"Like that, huh?" John says, still grinning. He feels like he might start laughing, actually. "Yeah, you wanna let go I can tell – oh _fuck_ that's good…" He pants shallowly against Peter's broad chest, not sure if he's in control anymore and not really caring much one way or the other.

"John." His name on Peter's lips, spoken low and deep and thickly accented, Peter's hand gently spreading the precum dribbling from both of their cocks along his shaft. When he removes his hand John groans in protest, but Peter just smiles before dipping his head and running his tongue swiftly over John's lower lip.

Peter turns onto his stomach languidly, sculpted muscles in his back rolling gorgeously beneath pale skin, and John laughs when he realizes that the big Russian knows exactly how good he must look right now.

"Fucking show off," John mutters, but his eyes slip like water down the curve of Peter's spine to the tight globes of his ass.

"Mm." Peter stretches a little and rises to his knees and that's really all the invitation John needs. He crawls into position, his hands going to Peter's ass and squeezing experimentally just because he's never seen anyone with such a tight ass before, at least not in real life and naked in front of him, and then he spits on his hand and rubs it over his cock and pushes forward.

One slow, deep stroke, and it feels just so fucking _good_. He pulls out gradually and then decides fuck it, he's never been the slow-and-steady type anyway and slams forward again, lets his hips settle on a rhythm that falls just short of brutal. Peter is moving beneath him, meeting his thrusts and panting, one huge hand pumping his own cock, muscles taut and glistening dimly in the honeyed light. John's hands settle on Peter's hips, fingernails scratching shallow grooves into alabaster skin and he just stops. Thinking.

When he comes his head falls back and he just stares blindly at the ceiling.

Abe Lincoln doesn't look impressed.

"Shit," John breathes, and pulls out.

"Mm," Peter replies, and sits up. He examines his sticky hand for a second, shrugs, and gets up to pad heavily to the bathroom. John sits on the edge of the bed until he hears the shower running and then he stands, grabbing for his clothes.

It occurs to him that he's about to run off, even thought this is _his_ hotel room and it was _his_ idea for the oversized Russian to come inside and about thirty seconds ago he was buried balls-deep in said oversized Russian and if that doesn't prove who's calling the shots then he doesn't know what does.

John sets his clothes on the bed and saunters into the bathroom. What the hell, Peter left the door open.

"Did you want to go again?" Peter asks from behind the shower curtain.

"What?" John asks, and Peter pokes his head out of the shower and looks at him.

"I asked you if you wanted to have sex again."

"You are fucking weird, you know that?" John mutters.

"Mm. I'll just be a minute, then you can have the shower if you want it. Or you can climb in and I'll wash your hair."

John laughs, mostly in disbelief, and Peter smiles. "I'm serious."

"What the fuck," John mutters and moves the shower curtain aside so he can stand in the bathtub. He's almost immediately sorry he did – up close and standing upright he can't help but notice that Peter's about three times his size.

Peter seems completely unperturbed, so John just affects a casual air and moves so he can get under the spray of the showerhead. Peter stands behind him and places a hand gently on one of John's shoulders, pulling him back a bit so he can dump a generous portion of the hotel's complimentary shampoo onto his head. That done, Peter then uses both hands to work the soap into a lather.

"You were serious," John mutters. He feels ridiculous and is half tempted to smack Peter's hands away, but on the other hand the strong fingers working at his scalp feel really, really good. And it's not like Peter's going to tell anyone about this anyway, since he'd then have to explain why he was in a shower with the enemy in the first place.

"Of course," Peter replies, and he sounds like he really wants to say 'are you deaf or just retarded?' "It's nice, yeah?"

"Yeah," John admits grumpily. Then, because now that the lust has pretty much worn off and he's thinking clearly, he says, "So I guess now I know why you paid for my lunch."

Peter laughs. "I'd do it again," he says thoughtfully.

John snorts. "Oh, really?"

"Really," Peter replies, and kisses the spot between John's shoulderblades before giving him a soft shove towards the shower spray. "Rinse."

John smirks under the hiss of water and steam. "Yeah, well, I'm not planning on staying in town for long."

"Of course not."

**read behind my face of steel  
don't get deceived, I'm human and I want you**

Peter is standing in the kitchen when his cellphone rings – just the standard beeping, no specially downloaded ringtone or anything because although he knows they're supposed to be cute Peter always just finds them obnoxious. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, and he tries not to smile as he answers.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pete. You wanna buy me dinner?"

Fin

A/N: Lyrics stolen from Rotersand

e-mail the author at violentsoundyahoo.ca or stalk her on livejournal under the usrename 'tweezle'


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